Waitin for the swive of a lifetyme and kint but feel upbobbed for choosin the adventurin life oer bein a hog grubbing tailer as such is good fora cockrobbin as my brother
By Fletch
Now this is nyce… nyce. All dark and afloatin in my wherewithall, waitin for what would prove a mystical swive from a gyrel-dryad. She’d run the pick of the party an singled upon meself. Must ha’been the dove-colered har the wizred scollar fixed me with. Rue was gone to join us, and thed were alright then, but now I’m plumb chiggered to have her to meself. Even Rol is nowheres here.
An me mother had wished me a tailer! Sommat about idle hands an minds, she witt that a rum-dandy chet as I what would run to trouble lackin a trade in the land. She was ne’er well about my plan for adventurin, noeser. Didn’t fly a fig oer my fell chets what I gathered with neither.
But tailers own sqinted eyes and hands rough of lye, not steel. They tend to bloat and carry more than their fair of chins. I and Bart apprentist with Hardy and even the beatins bort me over. And to lookit his mate… runnt me all ashivver. Not a life worth lustin, no for me. Twas alrite for sommone as Bartimer, wer kikkt by pa’s mule an tid must of made him all flaccid for livin. Not that he’s a looker like meself. Tailerins the best that leather-head could scope. An now I got upped with the hair, ha Bart, ye old drought. To think he’s gruntin oer stacks of fartin linens, whilst I float in wait for dryad.
Whats that keepin’ her? Quicker in, quicker done, I say.
See, I am man, haulin man-needs. I had must to step from my pure-froe sisters and mother to smith a nib from nocky greenhead. Adventurins not for ale and maydens, naeser. I aim to own, more than there run for lolpoop gils sewin corsets for copper. But yae, ale and poachin for maydens do dull the copper tingue of blood, keeps off relivin the wounds and death as we retrace same steps to same battle what wears and picks us off one-by-one.
We wit adventurins a gamble what the livin side slings rich until the livin dyes. And when I reap heads noff to gain a load of piece tall as Granfa’s pate, I’ll settle account, get prinked fit to sit court, parcel my own, and adventure no more for blood but for a fine-rigged frigot to drape in electrum and bear my legacy.
An Bartimer will never hold no more foul of me, none he dare. I’ll be scarred, levelt, strong. Each day burns me briter, each play guiding me to standing. No one ever wilt dismiss ‘ol Fletch another. None to dare it.
Ah, she’s back.
Show me, fayre one. Teach ‘ol Fletch yor magic.
